Seeing and Observing
by Arisprite
Summary: A random oneshot series, basically cleaning out my hard drive. Written off prompts, and musings. Updated sporadically. No slash.
1. Chapter 1 Sand

A/N: Wrote this long ago, and only just found it on my hard drive. I rather like it. I don't own Sherlock.

Title: Sand

Author: Arisprite

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><p>Sand.<p>

Choking sand and dust and heat and John couldn't _couldn't _breath. He was damp with sweat and there was cloth surrounding him, burying him. He struggled, not noticing the restraining hands and worried words.

He gasped, opening his eyes, finally coming truly awake, and feeling shocked that the room was dark, not the blinding light of an Afghani sun.

Sherlock was staring at him, frozen by his panic, and John just _ran_. Ran downstairs, ran all the way outside before he stopped, motionless.

Breathed.

He felt the rain, drank in the cool wetness of the rain on his skin, the spring rain soothing the memories of a burning land. He turned his face upwards, still gasping, almost crying with the remains of panic and relief. It was a light, misting shower, and it was nothing, nothing like the desert.

The click of the door behind him alerted him to Sherlock, having followed him down from the bedroom. He didn't turn, but he knew Sherlock was stepping closer, approaching him as you would a wounded animal. His irrational behavior had probably frightened him silly. He choked on a laugh, his chest spasming.

"John?"

Yup, Sherlock's voice was alarmed and wary. John breathed in deep through his nose, smelling the clean smell of rain on the city, calming his still racing heart.

"Sherlock." John answered, his voice rough but no longer his panicked shouting. He felt Sherlock relax slightly behind him.

"Are you alright?"

John turned around finally, and nodded. Sherlock looked slightly wide-eyed, and his hair was catching the misty drops, sparkling in the light of the street lamp. John closed his eyes, and breathed in again, this time smelling Sherlock's expensive cologne, and the slightly chemical smell of the interior of Baker Street.

"Are you coming back inside?" Sherlock asked, still out of his depth. John appreciated him for trying.

"Yeah." Sherlock looked at him for a moment more, his gaze piercing, and then he seemed to come to a decision. He stepped up closer and John felt a minute squeeze of a thin hand on his good shoulder. Then Sherlock turned and retreated inside the house.

John smiled, and turned back to the rainy night. Another breath, fortifying, soothing, calming. Then he followed Sherlock back inside.


	2. Chapter 2 Inception, Perception

Title: Inception, Perception.

Author: Arisprite

Disclaimer: I don't own either Sherlock, or Inception.

Summary: "I caught them poking around in my head, and took exception to it."

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><p>Sherlock sat in a small restaurant. It was familiar. The stool leather had cracks in all the right places, and the windows cut the dim evening light in the perfect angle to avoid hitting his eyes. He took a small bite of the food before him, Angelo's fettuccine. But that was wrong. This wasn't Angelo's, and wasn't he on a case? He didn't eat on cases.<p>

He pushed back the stool from the bar, leaving the nearly full plate of pasta, and looking around at the building around him. It was like...the details were wrong. Close, but not quite there.

He frowned in confusion, and the people around him began to look around shiftily. They were ignoring him completely, but they were definitely looking for someone. Why would they all be looking for someone...

The ground shifted, and Sherlock stumbled into a suited man.

"Sorry." He muttered, in an American accent, but Sherlock couldn't see anything else on his person that would give a clue as to where he was from. That wasn't normal. He reached out a hand to call him back, ask him why he didn't make sense, but he was gone after a blink.

He went outside, intending to call a cab, and get home to do some blood experiments to find out what drug was currently changing his view so drastically. There were certainly some interesting implications if he could categorize and duplicate it-

Then another strange shift in gravity caused him to grab the brick wall of the restaurant.

All further thoughts of experimentation were driven out of his mind when the ground shook hard, and he was narrowly missed by a falling over hang.

_Earthquake? The Dover Straits fault line is precarious..._

But people were running, not into hiding, but towards a small group of people, one of them that suited man he'd run into to. There was another man, a scruffy but still well dressed man, and a slender woman. The crowds were acting more and more deranged, surrounding the people angrily, picking up stones, throwing them.

Sherlock stood, watching in a kind of detached shock as ordinary people began to beat the three of them to death.

Blood spilled across the pavement, and Sherlock stepped back, not bothering to look behind him. He heard a blaring horn, and felt a heavy impact-

A gasp. Voices filtered in. A dream...

Sherlock slowed his breathing, keeping his eyes closed, trying to adjust to his surroundings without giving indication he was awake. Had he been asleep?

"...Can't believe how fast the projections attacked..."

"...You idiot..."

"...Supposed to be a genius, maybe that..."

"If you're trying to leave me asleep while you run off after whatever you did, you'd best keep you're voices down."

His voice was rough with sleep, but got his point across. Sherlock heard the movements still, the voices go silent. He opened his eyes, revealing his own flat, and the three people who'd been slaughtered a few minutes before.

They were standing or kneeling around a strange silver suitcase, which had several tubes strung out from it. The woman, a dark haired creature that most would call beautiful (married, one child) was in the process of rolling it all up, while the young man with slicked back hair (suit, expensive, but not brand name, doesn't want to be recognized) looked at him with an unreadable expression. _Impressive_.

The last man held up a pacifying hand. (Married to the woman, generic brand clothing, only recently came into multiple large sums of money, perhaps illegally. Artist by the callouses.)

"Look, we don't want any trouble." _Hmm, American too. _

"If you didn't want any trouble, you wouldn't have broken into my flat, and put me to sleep. What was it? Drugs?"

Sherlock sat up from where he'd been laying on his thin bed, and then stood. He felt no effects from whatever sedative they'd used to keep him under, and so stood steady, glaring at the intruders. "And, more importantly, why?"

They all looked at each other, trying to divine his mean, he supposed. Why are they here, why was he asleep, why him? Any answer would do.

"Look, Mr. Holmes. We haven't hurt you or anyone else. All we've done is trespassing. Let us walk away, and you'll never see us again."

He was using that calm voice people use to tame animals and wild children. Sherlock was having none of it.

"That's false. You were in my head. My dreams." It was true. These people had somehow influenced his thoughts, and the idea was enough to send him into a cold sweat. What was that machine that they'd so neatly packed up?

"Stay calm," The woman spoke for the first time, and Sherlock was able to place her accent as Parisian French.

_Interesting, but more pressing..._ "I'm sure my husband will explain everything."

There was an amusing silent exchange, that Sherlock would have liked to have had more time to study, between the married couple, before the blond man turned to him.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot."

Sherlock snorted. The man continued, still in that annoyingly calm voice.

"I'm Dom Cobb," He gestured to himself. "This is my wife, Mal, and our partner Arthur. We're involved in many things that not even your government knows about, and we'd really like it to stay that way."

"What is it? Something about dreams, obviously."

"Yes."

"Illegal, no doubt."

"Depends on who you ask." The man smirked. "What we do is legal, technically."

"Meaning there are no laws against it, as of yet."

"Exactly."

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><p>AN: I know! It's unfinished. There are a couple of other oneshots in this crossover, but I don't know if I'll ever make them into one story. So it goes here for now. Sorry!


	3. Chapter 3 Inception, Obituary

Title: Inception, Obituary

Author: Arisprite

Summary: It was bad when John was the bored one. But a mutual acquaintance in the obituaries catches both John and Sherlock's eyes.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or Inception

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><p>It was a relatively quiet day at 221B Baker Street, and hours ago, John would have said he'd love for it to stick around. However, that was hours ago, and Sherlock had yet to get dressed, or leave the sofa for any reason save the most necessary. John had cleaned the kitchen (a monumental task on the most ordinary of days, and Sherlock had been experimenting lately) and posted up the conclusion to their last case. He was now mindlessly surfing the Internet, bored. It was days like these that he wished he did work full time, and so would have an excuse to get out of the house every day.<p>

Sherlock was staring intently at his own laptop, headphones in, and taking furious notes on a yellow legal pad. John sighed, and clicked to a new page. There wouldn't be any cases for now. Sherlock was surely occupied, and so wouldn't be bugging Lestrade for anything and eveything. Therefore, Lestrade would only text if there was something particularly intriguing.

John told himself that it was very very wrong to wish for a clever murderer to strike.

He rolled his eyes at himself, and started reading the international news, for lack of anything better to do. There could be something interesting...

His thought trailed off as he realized that he knew the names listed in a tragic news article.

_Research Heiress Commits Suicide?_  
><em>Mallory Cobb, daughter to the renowned Scientist and Professor Stephen Miles, was found Monday evening dead from jumping off a window ledge of an unnamed hotel.<em>

John took a breath, feeling shocked. Mallory Miles. That vibrant, soft spoken french girl with a back bone of steel. Jumped to her death?

"Hell..." He breathed, and Sherlock jerked up.

"What?" He asked tersely. John looked up at him.

"I just found a news report. Friend of mine from Uni, committed suicide a few days ago." John started reading the rest of the report. "No, hold on. They think it was murder."

Sherlock seemed interested in spite of himself, and he got up to come read over John's shoulder.

"Do they have any informa..."

Sherlock fell silent, and when John looked up at his friend, he saw that his face was white, eyes wide and glued to the page.

"What's the matter?"

"It can't be..." He whispered, and then grabbed John's laptop from him, and typing furiously on it.

"Oi!" John protested, but let him take it, leaning forward to see what Sherlock was looking at. News reports, case files, all regarding Mal's case.

"Sherlock, are your seriously hacking into the LAPD? What's going on?"

"It's not a murder."

"What? How do you know?"

Sherlock, still pale as death, pursed his lips.

"I just know."

John sat back in his chair. That didn't sound like Sherlock. He doesn't get _hunches_, he gets proof. He huffed a breath, and let him type, taking a moment to mourn the girl who'd sat by him in classes, and shared her lunches with him. The one who'd run off a few weeks before graduation to get married instead of finishing her degree, leaving behind miles of broken hearts.

John was snapped from his thoughts by the slam of his laptop lid closing.

"We're going out."

John stood gratefully, wanting something to distract him now more than ever.

"Right. Er, you might want to get dressed first."

Sherlock took a look at himself, and then swept into his room in annoyance, emerging minutes later in his normal attire. John handed him his coat with a smirk.

In the cab, John surreptitiously watched Sherlock. He was agitated, that was clear; Face pale, and drumming on the door handle. He knew it had something to do with Mal, since this behavior had started after he read that article.

"You knew Mal too." It wasn't really a question. Sherlock gave him a glancing look, eyebrow raised.

"Using my methods on me, now?" John shrugged, turning a bit more towards his flatmate. Sherlock looked out the window.

"Yes, I knew her and her husband."

"The one who's supposed to have killed her?" Sherlock gave him a sharp look.

"He didn't." He said curtly.

John blinked again at Sherlock's uncharacteristic adamance, before they'd gathered any evidence. He decided to drop it for now.

"So, where are we going?" John opted on a safer question.

"Mycroft."

"Mycroft?" John sputter. They _never_ visited Mycroft, not of Sherlock's own free will, not without much snarking and bribing to even be civil.

"Oh, you can stop looking at me like that. Unfortunately he's the only one even capable of getting the information we need.

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><p>AN: There may be more in this cross over, but I can't promise. I do like the idea of a string of connected pieces, since I can't be bothered to plot anything longer than a inch. But I'll try.


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